Rising Sun
We are left in the field, forced to labor the land.
Not one tool in hand shall feel wrath.
Yet the vines should fear presence.
We were lead to this point where darkness found.
The morning dew looked as if caught by surprise.
The steps leading to the potato patch, did not even lead to that.
We try to grasp an understanding, although I will not stand under anything given.
For bushels of fruit laced with serpents, seems like deja vu;
Blankets with chicken pox.
We was left in the field forced to labor the land.
Maybe cause my skin is dark instead of light skin.
We ponder in sleep what this supposes to mean.
We strive to move forward, although they push us back.
The willing will rise but what if they meet opposition.
Will they shrink under the skin, or stand boldly in the wind.
I read in between the lines, only noticing
The only thing that is left is the lines without the n.
I am trapped in the belly of the beast,
Called land of the free but we're taxed for everything.
How to escape this matrix, is the only way out is death.
For I will fight into my dying day, then I will go to hell and fight some more.
People never thought of us, as being black the giver of life.
They only stuck on the light I spread, so they can mix words up and serve it
To you backwards my friend.
Remember when you pray at night, we are waiting for you in the morning.
We stare through your windowpane.
We try to alleviate the pain; of the rain.
For us was in the beginning, along with the Asiatic black man.
As you see when you look at us, you staring at the melanin you see.
Just remember one thing without we, the earth would be bare.
This is the reason why birds salute, an educated black man,
For We are the twins of the Rising Sun.
Copyright © Craig Hickerson Jr | Year Posted 2007
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